


These Songs Saved My Life

by CrowningGlory



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Darcy is a singer, ENSA, F/M, Music, Singing, Time Travel, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7258396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowningGlory/pseuds/CrowningGlory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An out-of-time Darcy Lewis finds herself singing to entertain the troops during World War II, bringing her into contact with one James Buchanan Barnes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another time travel fic. This sprang into my head after I discovered Postmodern Jukebox on YouTube and wouldn't go away. I have an insane number of time travel fic ideas, so don't be surprised if I end up writing loads of them. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. This is just the first chapter.

Bucky slumped to the bar of the dance hall and ordered himself a whiskey.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a cluster of men from his regiment sitting round a table with a deck of cards and cigars.  God only knew where they found the smokes.  One of them, Sergeant Rupert Morse, beckoned him to join them, but he pretended not to notice.

A couple of years ago, he’d have been right there with them, enjoying one too many drinks, a girl on his knee, to whisk around the dance floor and maybe into his bed later.  But life of late seemed determined to drain him of any and all joyful energy, and he could trace the cause right back to its root, no problem.

Draft papers.  Two little words, but all it took to turn a man’s life upside-down and inside-out.  He’d told Steve he’d enlisted, of course.  Somehow he thought the little punk would worry less if he thought it was Bucky’s own choice.  But who was he kidding?  Steve had probably seen right through him anyway.

So here he was, smack-dab in the middle of the European Theater.  Despite first shipping out for England, there wasn’t much cause to stick around.  It had been more of a waystation, where they’d united with other Allied troops and headed off for Europe.  Travelling through the war-torn continent had been hell, all muddy trenches and God-awful rations and hard, cramped bunks.   Trying to sleep amongst a score of snoring men was impossible.  He was used to the snuffling sounds Steve made when he snoozed, the asthma affecting him even in sleep, but this was like bedding down in a field of chainsaws.  But even that was heaven compared to the days when there were no rations at all, and food and sleep was replaced with gunshots and landmines and blood and dying men screaming for their mothers.

The one bright spot was the other thing they had picked up in Britain, along with their troops: ENSA.  Well.  _Bright_ spot was a bit of an overstatement.  The Entertainments National Service Association was a blessing and a curse.  Mostly a curse.  Some bloke in Britain had had the brilliant idea at the beginning of the war to form an organisation to provide entertainment for their troops… which _sounded_ great in theory, but in practice the entertainers were spread so thin that the men were lucky to get one decent performance a month.  The British soldiers, with that quintessential self-deprecating, stiff-upper-lip sarcasm, had given it the flattering nickname ‘Every Night Something Awful’.  Bucky was inclined to agree with them.

They’d had the odd amateur performer who put on a good show, and there was one extremely memorable evening when Vera Lynn herself graced them with her presence.  Bucky would deny till his dying day that her rendition of _We’ll Meet Again_ had him in tears, and he had twenty witnesses to that fact, each of whom had also certainly _not_ been bawling like big, khaki babies.

The dance hall had filled up fast with soldiers seizing the opportunity to whirl a local girl around the dance floor before it was back to the trenches, with no female company in sight to keep them warm.  The band currently providing the music for the venue was competent enough, although the instrumentalists looked tired and drawn, like they’d rather be anywhere else.  _Join the club,_ Bucky thought sourly, sipping on his whiskey.  The pianist was periodically shooting dirty looks at the singer, a young man with a long face who was clearly nervous, and kept messing up the lyrics and coming in several beats too early.

A commotion to the side of the stage caught Bucky’s eye, and he craned his neck to try and see it more clearly.  But all he could make out was a man in a suit and a woman in a red dress having what looked like a heated argument.  A minute later, the singer fumbled his lyrics again, and the pianist, obviously done with this shit, wound the song down to an early close, to the confused relief of the soloist.  The poor man squinted at something off-stage, apparently held a conversation with someone standing there through mouthed words and eye movements, and then scurried off the stage without looking back.  The pianist’s face took on a look of nasty satisfaction.

Then, the woman Bucky had glimpsed swept forward to stand in front of the microphone.  At her appearance, the instrumentalists brightened, sitting up straighter and seeming to shed some of their exhaustion.  She was a lot shorter than the man who had been there before, but she rearranged the stand’s height with practiced ease, unfazed.

Bucky took a good look at her, and felt his breath leave him as though he’d been punched in the stomach.  She was indeed wearing a red dress, as he’d thought.  Bright and lively scarlet, not the dark crimson of blood.  It hugged her every generous curve and flowed to the floor, swinging with her movements.  It was all too easy for Bucky to imagine spanning her nipped waist with his hands, pulling her to him to feel the softness of her skin, her full breasts, the flare of her hips pressed along the length of his body.  White gloves covered her hands and forearms up to the elbow, and her long fingers wrapped around the microphone.

Her hair was a mass of mahogany curls piled precariously on top of her head, just waiting for him to shake it loose and sink his fingers into it, and capture those plump, ruby lips with his own.

God, she was beautiful.

Since being shipped off to war, Bucky’s world had been grey and cold.  The thrill of a pretty dame had become a thing of the past, and he’d been living in a slump of emotionless drudgery, shutting out all feeling to survive the horror of the battlefield.  But that night, staring up at a woman on stage who was fire and passion and grace in human form, he felt the frisson of attraction and arousal again, stronger than ever before.

The other men in the room were starting to notice the woman in red too, now, and a few catcalls and whistles floated up towards her, and Bucky tightened his grip on his glass, overtaken by an irrational wave of possessive, protective fury.  He hadn't even _spoken_ to her.  He didn’t even know her name.  She wasn’t his.

But he’d been hers from the moment her stilettos had hit that stage.

The woman was unbothered by the bawdy comments being shouted in her direction.  She surveyed the room coolly, sky blue eyes taking in every man, woman, chair, drink.  With a wave of her hand, the instrumentalists started to play again.  Bucky recognised the song immediately.  _A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square._   It was one of his favourites.

As the introduction played, one corner of her lips quirked upwards in a smirk.

Then she began to sing, and the dance hall went silent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy gives her performance, and notices a certain dark-haired soldier watching her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really hard to write. I had all these ideas, and they weren't coming out coherently... It's still a bit of a mess.
> 
> I'm not really sure where I'm going with this fic yet, big-picture-wise, so I have no idea how long it's gonna be. We'll see.

When the stage manager had insisted that Darcy take poor Tommy’s place on stage, Darcy had argued.  How was the boy ever supposed to build experience and confidence if they kept pulling him out whenever he messed up?  Which, to be fair, was… every time.  But, as was often the way with the manager, Darcy had lost the argument and ended up in front of the mike.  Frankly, Tommy looked relieved.

The wolf-whistles were something she was well used to.  Irritating, but ultimately not off-putting in the slightest.  Adjusting the stand, she swept an eye around the room, taking stock of every person there.  It didn’t matter that the men were leering at her now.  It didn’t matter that they saw only her body and not the woman underneath; in a couple minutes’ time they’d be under her spell.

As the first few bars of the introduction sounded in her ears, Darcy drew herself up, letting the notes sink into her skin, shoring up her with confidence.  Then she opened her mouth and let the music flow, and, just as she’d known they would, the men shut up.

_When two lovers meet in Mayfair_

_So the legends tell_

_Songbirds sing and winter turns to spring_

She’d hated this, once.  The stage, the audience, the lights.  The constant pressure, the endless lessons, and worst of all the mother who didn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.  Now, she loved it.  It was the only place she felt comfortable.  It was as close to home as she was ever going to get.

_Every winding street in Mayfair falls beneath the spell_

_I know such enchantment can be_

_'Cause it happened one evening to me_

Here, in the space between the dancefloor and the piano, in the little sunless slice between midnight and dawn, she reigned.  Outside, in the world she’d attempted to deny was real until it had become painfully obvious it was no nightmare, there were so many people she answered to.  People who told her where to go, what to wear, who looked at her like they knew her, owned her, until she wanted to scream in their faces and tear their hair out.

_That certain night, the night we met,_

_There was magic abroad in the air._

But the stage was her kingdom, the microphone her sceptre, the dancers her subjects.  Here, she was queen.

_There were angels dining at the Ritz,_

_And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square._

Someone was watching her.  It was a sort of sixth sense she’d developed over the years, a slightly sick feeling in her stomach, a jump in adrenaline; her instincts warning her about yet another person staring at her like a predator at prey.  But this was different: completely devoid of malice.  There was nothing but the absolute certainty that someone was looking at her.

It should have been ridiculous.  This whole room was filled with people paying attention to her – she was _performing_ , for God’s sake.  Though, not as many as at the beginning of her song: after the first couple of verses a few couples had recovered and taken to the dancefloor.  _Nightingale_ was a very romantic song, after all, and these battle-weary men would have to have been fools not to take advantage of it.

But… again, this was different.  There was something about this feeling that was not so much uncomfortable as _exciting._   A frisson of anticipation ran down her spine, and she shivered.  She hadn't thought she was capable of feeling this way anymore.

_Stop it, Darcy_ , she berated herself angrily.  _You’re being silly.  Either it’s your imagination, or it’s another creeper in line to find out just how sharp stilettos can be._

Still, she couldn’t stop herself from doing another sweep of the room.  Sure enough, there were plenty of people looking at her, but eventually her gaze fell on a dark-haired man sitting at the bar, forgotten glass in hand.  She had to stop herself from doing a double take at the sight of him – _tall, dark and handsome was_ definitely _coined with him in mind_ , her neglected libido purred.

Darcy had seen plenty like him since joining ENSA.  Disenchanted, exhausted boys fighting a war they didn’t sign up for, forced to grow up way too fast, suffering from PTSD that was still known as ‘shell shock’ and no one had figured out how to treat yet.  She could see it in the set of his shoulders: the depression, the lack of motivation to even _care_ anymore.  Just another soldier.

She returned her attention to the rest of the room, and her performance.

_I may be right, I may be wrong_

_But I'm perfectly willing to swear_

_That when you turned and smiled at me_

_A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square_

It was no use.  Her eyes were drawn back to the man at the bar, again and again.  The first time, she told herself it was because he was so easy on the eyes.

_The moon that lingered over London town_

_Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown_

_How could he know that we two were so in love_

_The whole damned world seemed up-side-down_

The third time, she conceded that there was an intelligent gleam in his eyes, and fuck if she didn’t like a man with a brain.

It was only when she’d lost count that she finally accepted that she liked the way he looked at her.  Like he was really _listening_ to her, like he _saw_ something, more than the sultry jazz singer.  Like he wanted to peel away her layers to peer into her soul.

She shivered.

His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open in a surprisingly childlike expression of… delight?  He was completely frozen in place, and it settled something in her, this reassurance of her power, that her talents could rob such a man of his ability to move.  The more she studied him, the closer she came to the realisation that there was more than mere enjoyment in his face.

He looked at her like a man who’d finally found his anchor in the storm.  He was clinging to her with his eyes, desperate and eager.  She almost stumbled over her lyrics.  No one had ever looked at her like that before.  At least, if they had, she couldn’t remember.  It had been a pretty lonely few years.

And now, to feel that burning gaze… it was thrilling and terrifying all at once.  It promised adventure and heartbreak and responsibility and _feelings._

Her mind told her to recoil, to retreat.  Hope only led to disappointment, after all.  But, _oh_ … it had been so long, maybe forever, since she really _felt_ anything besides fear and solitude, and she wasn’t ready to give it up just yet.

So Darcy sang.  She sang of enchantment and romance and moonlight and dreams coming true, and she sang it just a little _more_ , just for him.  And she thought maybe there might be a little magic left for her, after all.

_The streets of town were paved with stars_

_It was such a romantic affair_

_And, as we kissed and said goodnight,_

_A nightingale sang in Berkley Square_

She considered his slightly shabby dress uniform, worn but perfectly clean and crisp.  The thought of him brushing and primping up his clothes, somehow still hopeful about his night out despite the horrors he must have seen, stirred something in her.  Then she tried to imagine him, a clear clothes horse, who belonged in a factory or a building site or a bar, out on the battlefield.  Killing.  Watching his friends die.  Fearing for his life.

No wonder these men all looked held together with sellotape and string.

_I know 'cause I was there_

_That night in Berkley Square_

As the last few notes died away, several heads turned towards her expectantly, waiting for the next number.  But her attention remained glued to her man by the bar.  The peaceful spell of the song broken, the defeated slump was returning to his shoulders, causing a knot to form in her chest.  She stifled an irritated sigh.

An idea formed in her mind.  Possibly a bad one, but… casting yet another look around the room, she couldn’t see any cameras in sight.  Sometimes they had journalists and filmmakers out here, documenting the war and the people waging it.  She’d done her best to stay out of any reels, but hadn't been entirely successful.

What she was about to do – sing a song that wouldn’t be written for another few decades – was certainly not something she wanted on film.

It was a hobby she’d developed from a young age, to make her grandmother smile: she’d take a modern song that she liked – or even one that she didn’t – and re-arrange it to sound like it was from her gran’s era.  Whenever possible, she’d round up any friends she could find who played the right instruments, and bully and pester them until they agreed to perform it with her for her gran to judge.

Now, she was glad of the hobby – and her gran’s patience – as she whispered instructions to the rest of the band.  Turning back to the dance hall, she gave the assembled crowd her most beguiling smile.

She was ready to inject a little fighting spirit back into these soldiers.


End file.
